


Unrest

by IridulcentDays (BiverbalBuncombe)



Series: Halloween Stories [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, America in danger, American Gothic Elements, Blood and Violence, Established Relationship, Halloween, Horror, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New England, Protective!Russia, Setting: New York, Spirits, Suspense, Undead, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiverbalBuncombe/pseuds/IridulcentDays
Summary: Halloween is when the veil between the living in the unknown thins.Last year, Halloween nearly killed them. America was attacked and Russia was only barely able to save him in time with help from Canada and England. This year they're going to be ready for any danger lurking in the dark. America's not going near the woods. He's staying away from cemeteries, and dark roads, and anything even resembling the supernatural. This year Halloween will be spent boarded up in New York City, where the constant electronic glow makes thoughts of demons or spirits seem silly and superstitious.So when Russia gets a panicked phone call from America, he knows danger is close.





	1. Prologue: Part One

America sat on the Q train, watching the dark walls of the subway fly past. It was late, and the train car was nearly empty. A man slept on the far end and two women nearby giggled quietly to themselves, looking at their phones. Blue tunnel lights flashed as the train passed, looking like will-o-wisps guiding them. America glanced back to the phone in his hand as it buzzed.

 _You should be asleep_ , Russia texted

America smiled to himself, leaning against the railing and texted back, _late night- I’ll let you know when I get home._

He looked up at the dark window of the train car as he waited for a reply, closing his eyes for a moment. He shouldn’t have let the interns keep him out so late. They might not have work tomorrow, but he did. The train slowly rumbled to a stop, and America glanced to the dark window again. His tired reflection looked back. The lights flickered and his phone buzzed with a new message.

 _Thank you, I will call you later today, we still need to figure out when I am coming to visit,_ Russia texted.

America smiled quickly typed back, Well, I think staying in the city is the best. _Maybe we can finally watch those movies this year._

He hit sent and watched the message screen show Russia was typing back. The lights flickered again and America glanced up at the dark window once more.

A gaunt face with red ember eyes stared back. Jaw unhinged, rows of teeth gleamed in the light of the train car. Breath fogged the pane of glass between them. America jolted back, hitting his head on the pole next to him.

His phone dropped to the floor, clattering loudly. The ghostly face in front of him dragged its finger, claws gouging the glass with a ear splitting screech.

The train lurched as it moved again, and America swayed, nearly tripping over and toppling to the ground. He glanced at the two girls sitting nearby. One was watching him in puzzlement. The other, in true New Yorker fashion, ignored him and continued to scroll through her phone. When he stared back at the window, it was empty. The phantom was gone.

With shaky fingers, America picked up him phone off the floor, scrubbing it against his jeans. Russia had texted back.

_That would be nice. I hope it is quiet this year._

America looked back up at the glass. A passing light glinted off a deep gouge in the window.


	2. Prologue: Part Two

September had been hot and dry thing, but October dragged the world into autumn with short rainy days and cold nights. The weather bit down to the bone. Alfred shivered, pulling his coat closer as he waited for the crosswalk signal and took a sip of the hot apple cider he had grabbed from a cafe after leaving work.It was still blistering hot and nearly burned his tongue. A bus sped by and barely missed soaking him.

Alfred had been working long hours through September as the end of the government fiscal year reared it’s head. More than once he had found himself staying overnight at his desk and waking up to paperwork plastered to his cheek. And then October had begun and he had been pulled into a project regarding the UN and when he finally stopped working and looked around October was nearly over.

And with that brought dread. Because it was almost Halloween.

Normally he loved Halloween. The glowing jack-o’lanterns, blushing leaves, autumnal flavors, and the fun parties overflowing with candy always made him felt like a child again. Ivan would usually visit him, and that just made the holiday all the better.

Alfred glanced at his phone, sending off a text to Ivan he would be home soon. He’d landed yesterday; he was spending two weeks with him this year. Which was great. It was. But something in him just couldn’t…be happy.

Alfred glanced down to the leaves cluttering the sidewalk. Normally he’d be dragging Ivan to the park and jumping around on the leaves and throwing fistfuls at him. Normally. Normally…

Normally he didn’t need to worry about the unknown coming to hunt him down like last year. The signal changed and Alfred stepped out, crossing the street to hurry home. The stars were bright above him where they peeked between the grey ribbons of clouds. Alfred glanced at the office building next to him and looked at his reflection. Red stared back.

A truck rumbled by, headlights flashing over him and shattering the illusion. Alfred blinked and shook his head. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and walked away, keeping his eyes down to the ground. He only had a twenty minute walk left. Ever since that stupid night on the subway he had decided to walk home. Sure, it took an hour. Better that then the sudden claustrophobia he had somehow developed within the past few weeks. It felt like being in a grave in the dark tunnels.

Alfred glanced up to the sky once more. The stars were distant now, covered up and swallowed by a moonless sky. Alfred stopped, just out of the ring of amber light left by the streetlights.

The sounds of the city died around him. The streets empty. A single figure stood in front of him. Alfred stayed still.

A clawed hand stretched out.

His phone rang and Alfred watched reality pour back in. Men and women walked past, and he stepped out of the way of a jogger, bumping his shoulder into a building. Alfred answered the phone and merged with the traffic.

“Hey baby,” he murmured, and realized how shaken he sounded. He coughed and then took a sip of the cider still in his hand. It had gone cold. He stared at it puzzled and then tossed it away.

“Are you almost home?” Ivan asked him.

“Still walking,” Alfred said and glanced up at the facade of a gothic church. “Should be about twenty minutes or so.”

“Still?” Ivan asked.

“What’d’ya mean, ‘still’?” Alfred turned down the quiet side street and glanced at the graveyard through the wrought iron fence. He moved to the other side of the street.

“You texted that to me an hour ago.”

Alfred took a deep breath of the cold night air. “What?” He glanced down at his phone checking the time. Fuck. An hour had gone by.

“Is everything all right?”

Alfred glanced at the street. Dread began to fill his stomach. Icy and aching. “No. No – I…I’m going to take a cab.”

“Alfred?”

Alfred turned, walking back to the main street. Something wasn’t right.

“I’ll be home soon babe. See you in ten.”

Alfred hung up. He stood on the curb, flagging down a yellow cab and loading into the back seat. He gave his address, putting the seatbelt on with trembling fingers. He looked up and watched the buildings speed by.

Alfred glanced at the driver, who was fiddling with the radio and then at the rear view mirror. Red stared back.


	3. Insomnia

Russia sat on the stool in America’s apartment kitchen, looking out the dark window and down at a restless city. The refrigerator hummed and a soft green glow from the microwave soothingly lit up the room. It was 2:49 am and he couldn’t sleep. 

Nothing was right. We was worried and the raw edge of his lip where he had been chewing on it all day showed that. When he talked to America on the phone every day nothing seemed different. He had just been here in July with Arthur, making sure their disastrous Halloween last year hadn’t affected him. England had been cautious, but at the same time hadn’t been able to see anything wrong with him. Russia hadn’t noticed anything until he had landed in the airport and stared at his boyfriend’s exhausted eyes. 

Two warm arms snaked around his waist and Russia jolted, turning his head and knocking it sharply into the person behind him. Warm breath puffed into his ear and America dipped down, filling his vision with a tired laugh. “You startled me,” Russia growled. America hummed, leaning forward more so he could rest his head on Russia’s shoulder, tapping his fingers arrhythmically against Russia’s stomach where he held on. Russia sighed and raised a hand to thread through America’s hair, wavy at the nape of his neck and damp from the shower he had taken earlier in the day. 

America hummed again and released his grasp. Russia felt the cold seep back in instantly and placed his hand on top of America’s to trap him there. Chuckling, America said, “Come on back to bed.”

Russia swiveled in his seat, bumping his knees into Americas and looked up at his boyfriend. He looked tired. Exhausted. Worse than he had at the airport. America slid between his legs, brushing some hair away from Russia’s face. Without his glasses on America always looked younger, but somehow, even in the cool green electric light, America seemed brittle somehow. Russia tightened his knees together, trapping him. “Jet lag,” Russia mumbled. 

“Mm.” America pat his palm against the fleshy mound of Russia’s cheeks, grinning at the last second as he grabbed on and pulled Russia’s face into an unamused smile. He laughed and Russia watched joy bloom. He was smiling less. Laughing less. 

Russia wondered if America was scared for the first time. 

He had been shaken up. When everything had finally calmed down and America had explained the unknown creature that had hunted him and forced him to imbibe it’s blood, he’d been cavalier about it–erupting ire from both his brother and England. 

It’d been different for Russia, who had watched him spend restless nights staring at the ceiling and clenching the sheets in silence. When Canada finally left two days after England, America’s mood had dive-bombed until every word was caustic. They’d fought. Bad. And in the end America had ended up curled up on the floor with Russia holding on to him, as though it would be enough to put the pieces back together again. They fell asleep on the hardwood floors and the next morning, after America kissed apologies into his skin and Russia whispered asks of forgiveness into his hair, they never spoke of it again. 

And months had passed. Nothing was wrong. 

But now, with October nearly dead, Russia knew with a sick certainty that something was very wrong. 

Back in the quiet of the kitchen, Russia batted America’s hands away and picked up a glass of water from the kitchen island and took a long sip. America yawned, walking over to the cabinets and dragged out another water glass. He silently turned on the tap, then turned around and took a deep gulp. As he looked out of the window, Russia wondered if he had gotten thinner. The shadows of the room made him look gaunt. None of this was good. 

America leaned against the counter, looking down still at the warm glow of the city, and Russia let his gaze wander to the wall, looking at the shadow he cast. 

He was seeing problems everywhere. America was too tired. Too thin. Too quiet. Nothing seemed right. There was an unease he couldn’t explain. A cotton wet chill that stuck to his bones. Russia turned his head away and looked back at Alfred, ignoring his imagination. Now he was loosing it. Shadows. What was there to be scared of shadows? He stood up and frowned down at his legs as his knees popped. Long flights were terrible. Russia glanced up and realized America was watching him, finishing off his water languidly, Adam’s apple bobbing mesmerizingly. He was the center and sole focus of that blue gaze. Russia smiled softly. Flights were awful but they were worth it if America was there at the end of them, waiting in the airport with an obnoxious sign and a Hollywood smile. 

“Why did you get up?” Russia asked, sliding his empty glass forward. America whisked it away and dumped it into the empty sink, leaving the dirty glass for tomorrow. His own glass joined in the basin. 

“Just did,” America replied blandly. He tapped his fingers against the counter and yawned. “C’mon. Let’s get back under the covers. Freezin’ out here.”

America walked over to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him up firmly. Russia stood up, tucking the stool under the island with his foot and let America pull him to the dark den of the bed. 

“I know the way to the bed,” Russia said. 

“Maybe I don’ wanna let go,” Alfred countered, not looking back at him as he kicked the door back open. 

He flopped into the unmade bed, a stylish indigo and white pinstriped linen that was too tasteful that when he had glanced at it America had replied with a roll of his eyes, ‘Arthur’s birthday gift to me. At least it isn’t socks this year’. Russia soft of missed the gaudy superhero sheets he usually had. They were a cheerful red. He’d changed out the old red curtains too to white. 

Now America pulled Russia down with him, and he bounced along with America on the mattress. He grabbed for a pillow and America tossed the down blanket over them, encasing them back into the warm nest of their bed. America immediately pressed his cold toes into Russia’s legs and he arched away from him, hitting America in the chest with the pillow he had grabbed. 

“I thought you’re supposed to like the cold,” America grumbled playfully. His face looked sour and then broke out into that muted tired smile. 

“I am tolerant to the cold,” Russia announced as he pulled the pillow back and started to fluff it to his liking, all the while enunciating the constants sharply. “I do not like it.”

“You do, too,” America argued. “You like snow.”

“Everyone likes snow,” Russia countered. 

“Nuh-uh,” America said and nestled closer to the other man. Russia looped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tighter until their sides were pressed together, nearly uncomfortably. 

“Yes, they do,” Russia said and avoided the childish vocabulary of his boyfriend. 

“No,” America yawned and closed his eyes. He still looked tired. A golden thread of light that seeped through the closed curtains curved over his chin and ear. Russia pushed away a damp curl again and rasped his fingers down his jaw where the light melted against his skin. 

“Yes,” Russia said quietly and watched America’s chest even out into the unhurried pace of sleep. He held on tightly. Counted America’s breaths. Counted his own heartbeats. He still couldn’t fall asleep. 

And in the corner of his eye, something moved. 

There was nothing there, of course. Nothing but America’s disheveled laundry and Russia’s shaving kit. But the unease built up on his lungs, pressing down until it felt hard to breathe and anxiety prickled his skin. 

There was nothing but shadows. There was his own, dim and gray in the dark room. It slid in and out of existence as he waved his hand back and forth through the thread of light. But the other shadow. 

Alfred’s hair and shoulder and leg. That he could see. But it was dark. Inky. 

There was something not right, but Russia couldn’t say what it was. There was nothing wrong. It was a shadow. It looked like a shadow. It acted like a shadow. He was over tired from traveling, and he knew America was in danger from all the horror of last year, and he was literally jumping at every shadow that so much looked wrong. 

He needed to stop acting like a child. America needed him. 

Russia covered his eyes with his hand. He needed to sleep. He turned back and faced America and felt his warm breath on his chest. The shadow didn’t move. But it seemed darker. Bigger. Encompassing. 

Russia fell asleep eventually, able to put away thoughts of shadows away for just a moment and enjoy holding the other man in his arms in the quiet apartment. 

 

...

Russia sat at the kitchen table once again, rubbing his face with his hands as he listened to England bitch him out. 

“I’ll be there by Wednesday. Why didn’t you call me sooner? You should have called me at the airport!”

Russia rubbed at his temple. America was still asleep and the glow of a hot orange sun bathed the room. He pulled down at his scarf. It was already too warm. “I did not put everything together until last night,” Russia admitted. After America’s call and distracted voice and the hour it had taken for him to get home…everything was painting a picture that made his head hurt. 

“Then you should have called me then,” England hissed. The phone crackled with static as he sighed. Russia looked down the long hall to the bedroom as he heard the door to the bedroom creak. America was up, then. 

“I should have called you,” Russia agreed. He tapped his fingers against the counter and glanced down at his phone, pulling it away to watch the call run past the half hour mark. Canada had texted. He’d be here tonight. With France, apparently. Wonderful. 

“No use worrying about it now,” England muttered and Russia scowled. Said, of course, after a half hour of furious scolding. “Keep and eye on him. Don’t even go to Central Park, do you hear me? We are all on lock down right now.”

Russia nodded and muttered, “We will stay in then.”

“Who’s that, babe?” America asked with a yawn. He gave a sloppy kiss to Russia’s cheek and laughed when Russia looked up at him with a narrowed gaze. 

“Arthur,” Russia said. America cocked his head and stumbled over to the cabinets to get his coffee. Russia had already made it and when America saw the full pot he turned around, Making a heart with his hands and mouthing ‘I love you’.

Russia kissed the air and returned to arguing with England. 

“I mean it,” England said. “The results could be disastrous. 

“Everything will be fine,” Russia argued. 

“I hope so.”

“Tell Egg to take a chill pill,” America muttered into his mug. 

“Egg?”

“Did he call me fucking ‘egg’ again? I’m going to kill that little brat when I see him.”

“Let me know what flight you’re taking,” Russia said, and glanced over to America when he stiffened. 

“Of course I will. Goodbye, Ivan.” And then he hung up. 

Russia ensured that the phone call had ended and pushed his phone away. He picked up his nearly cold tea and watched America blink and bite as his lip. He looked into the distance, to the blank wall behind them. Russia tapped his nail against his mug and America focused his gaze back on him. Sharply. 

“Why is England departing so soon?” America asked. “He should be arriving next week.” 

“Yesterday unnerved me,” Russia answered honestly. “I want them here early.” When America stared at him, he added softly, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” America spit out, recoiling back. Russia sat up straight. “I don’t need any babysitters.”

“Alfred,” Russia said. He left it there as America turned around, touching his forehead and clenching his eyes shut, breath hissing slowly from clenched teeth. 

“Sorry.” The kitchen was uncomfortably silent. America took a sip of his coffee and turned back, regret bright in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m not–“ he stopped, as though the words were trapped on his tongue. “I’m not sleeping well.”

“Nightmares?” Russia asked after studying America’s face in silence. 

“Yeah,” America admitted quietly. “I can’t really sleep through the night anymore.” He looked out of the window instead of meeting Russia’s eyes. 

Russia took a sip of his now bitter tea and pushed it aside. “Okay,” Russia said.

“Okay?” America asked, voice high in confusion. 

“Yes.” America shifted his stance and looked away again. “I do not know what is going on, Alfred, but I want to make sure you remain safe. I need you to tell me what is wrong so I can help you.” He held his breath for two heartbeats when America met his eyes again. “Let me help.”

America tapped his fingers against his mug and stepped forward, putting his splayed hand down on the dark marble. Russia let his fingers crawl over the digits, rising and falling as he touched each knuckle and traced a vein before holding his hand in silence. “I just can’t sleep. I think that’s all.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t drink coffee,” Russia said and leaned forward, pulling the mug out of his hand gently. 

“I don’t really want to go to sleep,” America admitted, looking down to the floor. 

Russia’s mouth felt bitter. He should have been here sooner. Something was absolutely not right. 

“England said we should stay in today,” Russia offered. “Maybe you can take a nap. I will be here.”

“That might make it okay,” Alfred joked, lips only half twisted in a smile. And then it fell, twisting into a deep frown. “Wait, like not go out at all?”

“No,” Russia said. 

“Well, I have to.” Alfred’s fingers started to clink against the counter rapidly, as though he was angry.

“No,” Russia repeated. 

America’s eyes looked dark. Like the ocean pulled into the depth and leaving a barren beach. “I have a meeting at work I can’t miss.”

“We can call out sick.”

America watched him intently and the same cold feeling filled Russia’s stomach again. The other man turned and he said sharply, “Fine.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle, upturning it and pulling two pills out. He filled a glass of water and put both in front of Russia. 

“What–“

“–Your head hurts. Take the Advil.”

And indeed Russia could feel the familiar pressure against his teeth of a sinus headache coming. He accepted the medication and drank it quickly. America took the empty glass and put it in the sink, washing it out and putting it to the side to air dry. 

“Why can’t we take a taxi?”

“I don’t think it is a good idea,” Russia said slowly. 

America sighed, touched his head again and finally blinked, stance relaxing. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll let Jenna know I’m out with the flu or something.”

Russia wanted to offer to write the email instead, but squashed it. He trusted America to call. In fact, when had he started doubting him? Russia shook his head. This was going to be a long two weeks. 

When America came back, his sour mood was gone. “Okay, Jenna’s good, so let’s watch a movie or something.” He nudged Russia as he walked by and picked up a banana for breakfast, “I get to choose since you’re keeping me here as prisoner.”

Russia scowled, “ I just–“

“–Want to keep you safe, I know sweet pea.” He flopped down on the leather couch in his living room and grabbed the remote. “Let’s start with Air Force One and then Rocky IV and then–“

“I get it,” Russia said dryly and took his place by America’s side. “But we are not watching those.”

“Fine. All of the Marvel stuff. In chronological order.”

“Fine,” Russia said and America hissed ‘yes’ and pulled up the first movie.

America kept his attention on the film without his usual banter or random movie facts or personal Hollywood scandals. Russia put his hand on America’s ankle, stroking along the tendon. Russia glanced at America’s shadow, which seemed deeper than the rest of the dark corners of the room. He yawned and rested his head on America’s shoulder. 

By the middle of the movie, Russia could barely keep his eyes open. He found himself nodding and would startle back to wakefulness. But America kept his eyes focused on the movie. Nearly unblinking. Unnatural. 

Russia grabbed America’s arm as he realized the tiredness was more than jet lag and stress. “Alfred,” he growled. But America didn’t turn. Black was creeping up, warm and lovely and dangerous. 

“It’s okay, Ivan” America said. Or maybe he dreamed it as his head fell against the couch arm. 

 

...

He awoke to sharp knocking and raised voices. Russia groggily stood up, catching himself on the couch as he nearly toppled over. The apartment was pitch black. “Alfred?” He croaked out, throat dry. 

The door rattled and the lights went on, burning away the darkness and hurting his eyes. He knew someone was talking to him, but Russia couldn’t understand. Cold hands touched his face and he gazed into soft and worried eyes. 

He blinked, coming to his senses and Russia mumbled, “Matthew?” He looked around, still tired and nearly falling asleep again. “Why are you here? I thought you would be here late.”

“Russia,” And Russia turned to look at France looking at him in worry. “It’s nearly midnight.” 

“Where’s America?” Canada asked. 

Russia blinked and cold fear stabbed through him. Where was Alfred. Where was he? Reading his fear, Canada turned and looked to France. “Check the apartment.” 

But Russia already knew the answer. He pushed himself away from Canada and cast his head into his hand, feeling nauseous and cold. 

Minutes later, France returned with a grim face. “He’s gone.”


	4. Dread

Russia peered between his fingers, feeling steam fog against his skin and looked up to see Canada holding a cup of coffee for him. Russia accepted it and Canada sat down next to him. He tossed off the pillow tucked in the corner, and Russia bounced slightly with the motion. A few drops spilled over the lip of the blue speckled enamel mug and he watched it dribble to the floor. A problem for later. Russia sat back, fingers too hot from the drink and nearly burning. He took a sip. Too bitter. Not enough milk. He stared at the coffee table nearby where morning light illuminated years of milky water stains encircling each other.

“How’re you feeling?” Canada probed quietly. Russia glanced at him, turning away when France’s quiet French filled the room as he walked in, house phone tucked to his ear and shoulder. He balanced two plates of pancakes in his hands, setting them and some silverware down softly to the coffee table before walking out again. Russia translated France’s mutterings in his head, We do not know. We still have not heard. Canada grabbed the closest plate and handed it to Russia.

“Still tired,” Russia finally admitted as Canada gave him a fork and knife as well. He took another sip of the coffee, although it was still at a scalding temperature. The pancakes were golden and perfect in the center of the plate. Russia wanted to see patchily burned and chocolate chip smiley faces instead. He poked at the pancakes with a fork. France came back in, a bottle of maple syrup in hand and placed it deliberately in front of Canada. He glanced to Russia as he walked back to the kitchen and said with a smile as he covered the phone, “You really do not wish to see Matthieu without maple syrup.”

“Well, just be glad it was the Benadryl and not the sleeping pills in there,” Canada muttered after giving France a mild glare. He cut the pancake apart with the fork deftly and muttered, “Or the knife.”

Russia straightened at that. “I do not think he is dangerous.”

Canada frowned, moving his bite around in the amber syrup. “Why?”

“Why?”

“He drugged you,” Canada reminded him. He glanced at his cell phone as it buzzed and then turned back to Russia, “That’s bad enough isn’t it?”

Russia glowered at his food and cut into his food. France returned, phone call ended, and sat down in the opposite arm chair with a sigh. “England just arrived. Should be two hours before he gets here, and to quote him,” France raised his voice and gave a horrible rendition of a British accent, “Get some idea of where the fuck he went.” France took a bite of the pancake before leaning over and grabbing the syrup, drizzling it lightly. “He hasn’t called either of you?”

Canada muttered a sour ‘no’ and Russia just shook his head. “I have tried calling and texting him. No reply.”

“He changed his password,” Canada said and stabbed the pancake. “I tried to look him up on his phone’s location app.”

“When did he do that?” Russia asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Do you think he even has his phone still?” France questioned.  
“Alfred would toss his phone away immediately,” Russia said.

“Alfred would,” Canada said. When both France and Russia turned to him, he added, “Is he even still Alfred? Has whatever it was that attacked him taken over some how?”

“He’s not gone,” Russia growled. Canada glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but he continued on, “He’s not. Alfred is still there. It would be dangerous to think otherwise. I know you doubt me,” he added, turning to Canada. He paused to push out the ire from his voice. It would do no good to make Alfred’s brother mad at him. Not during a crisis. “But if he were gone, why give me Benadryl? Why not the sleeping pills? Why not poison? Bleach in the water? He could have grabbed a knife. He could have smothered me at night with a pillow.” France looked out the window thoughtfully and Canada pushed his food around with a grating rasp against the ceramic. “His aim was to stop me from stopping him. Not to kill me. He could have done that easily. He’s strong enough.”

They all fell silent and France set down his plate. He stood up, brushing off his jeans and said, “I need more coffee, if we are going to be discussing things so grim.”

Russia finished his breakfast and said quietly as he dragged his fork through the remaining syrup and made swirls and patterns in it, “Do you think we are already too late?”

He knew Canada was looking at him, but he did not look up to meet his gaze. 

Russia’s phone buzzed loudly against the coffee table, clattering as a call came through. The dish fell to the ground and coffee tumbled onto the couch as he lunged for his phone. Canada stared, frozen hanging in the air. Russia’s fingers slipped as he answered from the coffee and syrup but he held the phone to his ear and said, “Alfred?”

France came running back into the room and hung onto the doorframe. Canada stood up, putting the plate down and stopped in front of Russia.

“Russia?” Alfred asked breathlessly on the phone.

Russia’s eyes flickered up and he nodded once, before focusing on his boyfriend’s voice. Breathy and high pitched, like he was trying not to cry. Russia swallowed. His throat was tight. “Are you okay?”

“Am I o– What about– Icouldhave!”

“Alfred calm down,” Russia said, voice lowering gently, “Breathe,” he murmured in Russian.

There was a pause of static where Alfred took in a shaky breath. “I’m in Boston,” he said.

“Boston?” Russia said and looked up at Canada who pulled out his own cell phone and walked to other side of the room. “Where are you?”

“I’m near Copley Square. I don’t…” Another rush of static and Alfred’s voice pitched as he squeezed out, “I don’t know how I got here. I was talking with you about England coming early and then…I don’t know. I just woke up here.” Alfred was silent again, but Russia listened to his breathing. It was reassuring in its own way. “Are you okay?” The words were cold.

“I am fine,” Russia reassured him. France was on his phone as well now, arguing boisterously in French that Russia didn’t bother translating, and Canada was still speaking quietly on his phone as well.  
“Are you sure?” Alfred begged.

“Alfred, take a deep breath…breathe again, Zaichik,” he murmured and turned to the window. Like he could whisper it to him right next to him. Like they were right there together and nothing was wrong.

“Did you just call me a bunny again?” Alfred laughed, hysteria edging his syllables.

“I could call you a cute fish?” Russia said.

Alfred laughed again. “That would be terrible, God. That would be awful. Please don’t.” Another pause. Then Alfred cleared his throat and muttered low and painfully, “I dreamed I killed you.”

“How?”  
“W-what?”

Russia looked down at the bustling city through the window. “Tell me how.” He could feel both men’s eyes on him, but he stared down at the city steadfastly.

The hysteria was gone when Alfred responded again. “I slit your throat with a knife,” Alfred said slowly.

“Where?” Russia asked.

“Where? What does that matter–?”

“Where?” Russia asked again.

“In the woods,” Alfred muttered.

“It did not happen,” he reassured. Sometimes that was all you needed to hear. That it didn’t happen- that everything was going to be okay. Even if it was threadbare illusion. Sometimes that was enough. “ I am still in your apartment in New York.” Canada was pointing at his phone, showing he was talking to England. He held up finger and drew a question mark and pointed at Russia. “And I am going to come find you,”

“Russia–,” Alfred said shakily.

“Where are you?”

“Near the Public Library at Copley,” Alfred said. There was a loud sound, like a truck going by.

“Stay there. We’re all going to find you. Everything is going to be okay, Alfred.”

Russia tubbed at his head as there was silence.

“Alfred?” He asked. When there was no answer he swore and hit the wall with his fist. The lamp near him rattled. The line went dead and Russia stared at his phone. Russia took a long breath and then turned around. “How soon can we get to Boston?”

Canada turned and walked to the kitchen, grabbing his coat that was hanging there. “An hour flight. It’ll take us 40 minutes to get to the airport, but the car is already waiting. I called in a favor or two”

“I have the airport notifying England to redirect to Boston once he lands. He’ll only be an hour or so behind us.” France put his phone away, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he bundled up. A bitter North wind was already clawing at New England.

Russia nodded, looking down at his phone again in faint hope Alfred would call back. “Let us go, then,” he said, only stopping long enough to grab his own jacket, passport, wallet, and keys before striding out the door.

 )()()()()(

Boston was more gray than New York, and a chilling fog rolled off the harbor and the Charles, dimming the city even more. It was late in the afternoon, and the street lights had already sprung on. Russia stood at the top of the stairwell for Copley, looking beyond the green line banner and searched the crowded street. Canada stood next to him, looking around as France finally walked up the stairs, adjusting his scarf to cover his chin. “This is where he said he was,” Russia told them.

“Where do you think he went?” Canada asked and turned around to look at the grand stone face of the Boston Public Library.

France pointed to a building on the other side of the street. “That is a church, no?”

Canada turned to glance at it and then turned back to the Library. “He’s not religious.”

Russia nodded his head, not bothering to look. “The only time he goes is for Easter and Christmas,” Russia said, looking away towards the busy street.

France frowned. “I think you are dismissing this too quick.” When Russia turned to face him, France gestured to the Gothic facade. “He has always searched for comfort at churches.”

Canadas brow furrowed. “I don’t know about always…”

Russia studied the tan and brown building before him. “He has never mentioned that to me,” Russia said slowly.

France checked both ways before darting though the busy street, grabbing Russia’s hand as he did so. Canada’s curse was muffled by the cars, but he jogged behind them, waving in apology when a car honked at him for delaying traffic.

France was already walking to go inside, looking at the visiting hours briefly and muttering, “If he is not here, we will check the library. He has always been a boy of science, but this is a matter of the heart.”

was it a matter of the heart? Russia had his suspicions. This was ghosts. Lore. Demons.

Perhaps a church was better.

The church was dim as they enters, quiet as visitors looked at the architecture and stained glass windows. France moved deftly through the few visitors there, heading towards the stately pews lining the center of the cathedral.

And there in the far left, where there were few people and the shadows seemed thicker, was a head with mussed blond hair, bowed down in thought.


	5. Impulse

Russia squeezed his fingers closed around the edge of the pew as he recognized the man sitting down a few rows away. They all stopped as one. France's fingers brushed against his arm and Russia was moving, walking before his brain could even comprehend on what to say. What to do. 

His hand lingered on the cold and worn wood before he stepped closer and took a seat next to America. Neither of them said a word. America did not look up. His hands rested limply in his lap- like he had almost put them together in prayer but had given up. Russia looked up to the front, where the altar stood illuminated, bare save a colored cloth and the sign of the cross. The wood creaked under his weight as he shifted, taking America’s hand in his own. 

A soft sob bubbled out, and Russia turned alarmed. Some visitors walking by glanced in their direction, but nothing stopped and no one came to check on them. Russia put his other hand onto their joined fingers and America whispered out roughly, “I don’t know what to do.” 

“It’s going to be fine,” Russia murmured, rubbing his thumb over America’s hot skin. It felt like he had a fever. His palm was clammy. America gripped his hand tightly and looked up with red rimmed eyes, bluer than the sky. “Canada is here, as is France. England is arriving any minute, and we’re all going to do whatever we can.” Because there was no other option. Russia, nor Canada, England, or France, were about to step aside and let whatever this creature was destroy America. 

And Russia loved him. They were going to get through this.   
Together. 

He squeezed America’s hand, pulling on his arm until America leaned into his shoulder, shuddering and silent. Russia looked up, and Canada and France walked over. Canada put his hand on his brother’s head. France gazed out at the church visitors and volunteers, checking to see no one was coming close. America glanced at Canada, giving him a small smile and then rubbed at his nose and cleared his throat. 

“You look good as ever,” Canada said. 

“Shut up,” America chuckled. He squeezed Russia’s fingers again and stood up from the pew, pulling the other man with him as he slowly left the aisle. “How’d you find me?” He asked. 

“France thought you might be here,” Russia said. America nodded, stoping at the top of the aisle and turned to look at Russia. “I did not think you would be,” Russia admitted. 

America rubbed at his eyes again, allowing his hand to drag down on his face and rest at his chin as he looked up at the church ceiling. Light from the stained glass, though weak, made his skin a mottled blue and orange, his eyes glinting red. 

“I don’t–“ He paused and shook his head, lowering his gaze to meet Russia’s. “Let’s talk about it later.” 

“Later,” Russia agreed. He clapped his hand on America’s shoulder, steering him out of the church and the chilly Boston air. 

America took a deep breath of the air, letting his lungful escape with a cloud of steam like a dragon. He glanced at the three other men and scratched his head. “Anyone hungry? I don’t remember when I last ate.”

France shook his head, saddling up beside him and hooking his arm within America’s. “Let us eat then. Even the devil doesn’t look so formidable with a full stomach.”

“Or after several glasses of wine,” Canada murmured as he walked past Russia. 

“No wine,” Russia said with a frown, looking down as America tugged at his fingers, pulling him along as France steered them away from the the church and away from the busy road. America smiled at him. Not the usual bright and youthful one he was used to seeing, but something more solemn. Content. Russia rubbed his thumb over America’s knuckles in response. The smile grew and America turned back around to face France. 

Within the hour they were nestled up against each other in a basement restaurant, elbows pressed up against each other as they talked and waited for food. The booth was tucked away from most of the people and they fell between lunch and dinner, leaving the old restaurant mostly empty of other patrons. Styled to match the old history of the city, the dark hunter green walls and dark wood tables was nearly cozy. France looked up from his phone, putting it down on the table with a clatter and said, “Well, what is the plan, then?”

America was looking over laced fingers, eyes unfocused as he stared at the darker corner of the restaurant, filled with old hunting paraphernalia. His blue eyes slid over, and he hummed, “Sorry?”

“What should we do,” Russia echoed. 

America sat back, letting his head hit softly against the wood booth. “I don’t know. I have the house in Lexington, around here. We can go there for tonight, I guess.”

“We can go back to the city tomorrow,” Russia added. America’s chin jutted up as he looked at him, silently mulling over a thought. Russia was waiting for him to say something but the words never came. 

America turned back to the other two, “We should go where there aren’t other people.”

Canada met Russia’s eyes and turned back to his brother. “Why?”  
“You lot finally decided to stay in one place for more than three minutes, did you?” Russia watched England put down his suit case, sliding into the booth next to France without bothering to remove his coat. He immediately began to fidget, nearly hitting the other nation in the face as he fished out a wrinkled and water stained scrap of paper from his breast pocket of the camel coat. 

America huffed out a strained laugh, “Was getting cabin fever.” 

Russia put his hand down on America’s knee under the table.

England muttered to himself as he unfolded the paper, meeting America’s eyes for only a moment before slapping the paper down and pulling out a small pouch of what looked like black powder. “Pass the salt,” England said. 

Canada slid the salt shaker down the table loud enough to get England to glance up and scowl at him for a heartbeat. 

“What is that,” France said. He went to poke the pouch and England pulled it closer to him, not bothering to look at France.   
“Tea, now shut up.”

“What sort of tea is that? It looks like ash,” France continued on, not discouraged at all by England’s actions. 

“It’s something to help– ah that’s right two pinches–” England tipped the salt shaker into his hand and measured out the course grains, dumping it into the black powder when he was done. He dumped two spoonfuls into France’s stolen water glass, stirring and muttering under his breath as he did so. Russia thought it took on a sickly green hue, despite it remaining black as coal. 

“Are you trying to banish me?” America joked weakly as he took the glass, considering it in the light. 

“What’s affecting you,” England corrected, green eyes burning in laser focus. “Drink it. Quickly now.”

America stared at the glass. Russia squeezed his knee gently as silent support. He took a small sip, face immediately twisting into a grimace. “What the hell is in this?”

“Waitress,” Canada warned, giving America only enough time to hide the water out of sight behind a mirror as the waitress walked over to them. 

“Decide on anything?” She asked, glancing at England added, “Can I get you anything to start with?”

“Water,” England said dryly without looking at her. He kept his focus on America and the hidden glass. 

“We’ll take the charcuterie to start,” France said and gave a charming smile. “We’re still deciding.”

“I’ll come back then,” she said with a smile and pink cheeks before walking away. France’s smile melted away as he turned his gaze back to America. 

“It’ll only taste worse the longer you wait,” England said, he tied the powder up, tucking it back into his coat. 

“Like a shot,” Canada added. 

America frowned at the dark liquor, before tipping his head back and downing the glass in two gulps. “Oh god,” he gasped as he finished, twisting away from Russia and Canada and retching.

“It’s not that bad,” England muttered, pulling the glass back towards him. 

Russia rubbed America’s back soothingly. “What will that do?”

“Hopefully stop whatever connection was born. I don’t like possessions, especially ones I thought weren’t there.”

“Tricky devil,” France murmured. 

America bent over, holding his stomach and pressing his head against the table. “That was disgusting,” he said, voice muffled. 

“Possession?” Russia asked. 

“Seems likely. It goes with what it was doing last year.” England pulled of his leather gloved and put them in in coat pocket, unbolting the long coat deftly. “I did some reading while I was on the plane. I have some ideas on how to get rid of it.”

Russia felt some of the tension finally leak out of his shoulders. He sighed. “That’s good to hear,” he said. He turned his head and watched America pillow his head on his arm, breathing slowly. America peaked out, poking out a black tongue at him before hiding his face back in the shadows of his arms. Russia chuckled, and continued to rub at his back in slow looping circles. “Do we know what it even is?”

England frowned. “It’s old. And dark. And was basically using him as an incubator.”

Canada scrunched up his nose at that and France frowned. “What does that mean?” Canada asked carefully, as though each consonant was made of glass. 

“It means it was trying to use America as a amplifier. To grow it’s own power.”

“And do what?” Russia asked, hand stilling.

“I would imagine to kill,” America muttered. 

There was a sick silence at that and America lifted his gaze. “too dark?” He asked. 

“Not dark enough, I am afraid,” England said solemnly. 

Russia watched America fidget with his fingers, frowning in apparent thought. “Can you stop it?”

“Yes,” England said. 

There was a loud crash as the glasses on the table clattered, water slopping over the rims as the table wobbled from the force of America’s movements. 

“Christ,” Canada said, grabbing the napkins at the table before anyone else could register what had happened. 

America stared down at his own hand grimly, where he held a knife on his impaled hand, a second knife clattering away from his splayed fingers. Russia pulled America’s hand off, realizing he now had to decide if he was going to pull out the knife. “What–“

“Sorry,” America breathed tightly, clearly in pain but his eyes were bright and clear. 

Canada stuffed cloth napkins into his hand, and Russia pressed them around the knife, still sticking through the back of his hand. England leaned forward, taking the second knife on the table out of America’s reach silently. He stared at the pocket knife and the sleek black blade before folding it back into itself and tucked it away. 

America watched Russia press the napkins, watching the blood soak through and said in a voice so calm it was edging on hysteria, “It–I, well me…no, It,” America decided and anger thundered in his voice despite him not raising his voice. It was like hearing thunder in the distance and knowing the storm was coming soon. “I just had a vision of me slitting England’s throat,” America gritted out. “And that wasn’t happening.”

“So you stabbed your own hand?” Russia asked incredulously, voice teetering. He needed more first aid than napkins. 

“Yeah,” America said. “I did.”

“Are you sure you know how to stop it,” France whispered to England. 

“Yes,” England said resolutely, but his face was pale, and Russia was not sure he believed it any more.


End file.
